


The Sun In Baker Street

by dFleecy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I wrote this after season three, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Mind Palace, Self-Doubt, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock's Mind Palace, lost sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dFleecy/pseuds/dFleecy
Summary: His mind and the real world were entirely different places, he knows that nowor, Sherlock needs to figure out how to cope without John
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	The Sun In Baker Street

It was different, Sherlock told Mycroft. The fake Mycroft, of course, because real Mycroft (no matter how hard he tried) could not actually read Sherlock's mind. He assured him again, it was different. Because the 221B Baker Street apartment in his Mind Palace was a much different place than the actual apartment. There were the same books, the same clutter and couches. The same papers on the walls, and bodies in the fridge, but it  _ was  _ a different room. This room was warm, inviting. It had fresh cups of tea or coffee. Sun filtering in through the windows, random London ambiance, but most importantly it had something the real 221B Baker Street apartment didn't have. John. 

John; whose presence calmed Sherlock in a way no case or room in his Mind Palace could. It was a bit unfair, he sometimes thought, that Sherlock had to escape to his own mind, sitting dormant for hours on end just to feel some semblance of routine or childish comfort. 

"Childish- what a good word for it." Sherlock's inner Mycroft mused. "It's childish, what you're doing. You must be aware of that, right?" 

A scene flashed through Sherlock's mind, the younger child version of himself in a similar situation. His body huddled in the corner of the very small and very dark room (was it more of a closet?), locked in, while his mind was somewhere else entirely playing over and over the memory of him playing a board game with Mycroft only a few days previous. He shook his head to clear the memory like an etch-a-sketch. 

"Childish is what you do best, of course." Mycroft scolded. "I've told you before 'don't get attached' and this is exactly why. It always ends like this, Sherlock. Shouldn't you have learned?" Sherlock glanced up, peering at John, who sat in his usual chair, in his usual position, with his usual beverage and book. And as usual, he said nothing. His inner-John had been quiet recently, and Sherlock had no clues as to why. He wished it was the other way around and Mycroft would be the one to stop talking. He was ruining the peace of Baker Street.

"And a bother is what you've always done best, dear brother," Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, standing from his chair to stretch. He didn't need to stretch of course, benefits of the mind, but it felt normal to do it and he wanted to do normal again. When he realised that there was no point in standing- where would he go?- he opened his eyes to the real Baker Street. It seemed less vibrant, and Sherlock wondered if that was just his eyes playing illusions on him or if John had literally brought the life into the apartment.

He pulled the phone out of his coat pocket and flicked it open to John's name. He composed several texts.

_I'm bored. SH

_We should have dinner. SH

_Are you and Mary doing well? SH

_This is no fun. SH

None of the texts sounded right, and Sherlock assumed none of them ever would- part of his curse. So he deleted every text, and several words were left to rot wherever words went when unspoken. Probably with Mycroft- he seemed to have a lot of garbage to say.

He checked the time. It was well into the night, and he doubted John would answer even if he did text him. He glanced around the room, holding onto the small chance that maybe there was something he had forgotten to do- something interesting. There was, of course, nothing. There was nothing because Sherlock never forgot anything, and he most certainly never forgot anything  _ interesting _ .

Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he had gotten too attached- too (dare he say it?) sentimental. Or maybe he had just taken for granted finally having a companion. A Best Friend, capital B and F. The wedding had certainly put things into perspective. He had a best friend now, but his best friend had a wife and there isn't normally a slot for sociopaths in a marriage, especially a sociopath as tedious to be around as him. With a baby on the way, Sherlock couldn't come up with any reason Sherlock would be important anymore.

The thought crushed him, admittedly. For all his time building up his reputation (consciously or not) he was doing a poor job at actually being devoid of feeling. Sherlock thought back to his conversation with Mycroft about the hat. Did Mycroft actually not get lonely? Was he lying? Sherlock couldn't tell, and wasn't sure if he wanted to. 

If you were lonely that means there were at least some times when you weren't. Would it have been better to just not have gotten attached to John at all? To keep him distant as he did everything else and sweep through life with the uninterested angle he had been keeping for years? If John were here, and he was actually able to say this, John probably would have stared at him for a few moments before lecturing Sherlock on some sort of sentiment memory and how Sherlock shouldn't regret  _ feeling _ . It was a lot to deal with. He was conflicting with himself, and while it  _ was  _ a distraction from everything else, it wasn't entirely welcome. 

His phone ringing made him jump, and he picked up the loudly ringing phone to glance at the screen, choosing to ignore the flips his stomach did as he couldn't help but wonder- was it John? He answered immediately.

"It's Lestrade, I think I've found a-" Lestrade didn't get to finish.

"Nope. Boring." Sherlock hung up, and rested his forehead on the top of his phone, clutching it in two hands. He tried to ignore the settling weight of disappointment that lingered on him. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes, fixing his posture in an attempt to feel better. When it didn't work, he furrowed his eyebrows angrily and threw his phone across the room. Just like Sherlock, it seemed to be propelled to John, and landed in his chair safely. He felt completely silly for feeling a small moment of anger for the phone. It was silly, he was the one that had thrown it even if it had  _ accidentally  _ landed on John's chair. He wanted to go pick it up off the chair- it was ruining the familiarity of it- but the idea of walking over there to pick it up seemed vomit inducing. 

Suddenly stressed, Sherlock buried his head in his hands, grabbing at his hair as he growled in frustration. He had wanted to scream, it would have felt much better, but he didn't want Ms. Hudson getting worried and coming upstairs to check on him. Especially when he couldn't even justify himself. He was angry for a silly reason. A phone on a chair? Hardly the hardest case he's had.

Silly, silly, silly, all of this was just ridiculous. He scolded himself for no specific reason, it just felt right. He had been called a ridiculous man before, even by himself at John's wedding, but it had never felt more true. What was he doing? He was depending on someone for his sanity. He hadn't depended on anyone since he was young. And even that, if he had hindsight he wouldn't have. He was always fine operating alone. He was an obnoxious consulting detective and he liked it that way. 

"Freak Detective, more like." It floated through his mind passively. Donovan's voice, of course. It was her favourite title. When they first started 'working' together Sherlock wondered if she had actually forgotten his name. It had only taken one encounter for Donovan to hate him, so it was entirely possible she had omitted Sherlock from memory. She did not seem opposed to calling him Freak in passing. 

It never bothered Sherlock though. He had been called plenty of names in his life that he just let pass over him. They never meant anything in the end, because just as no one could make him feel no one could make him hurt.

"Awe, no one?" Irene purred from behind him. He didn't turn to face The Woman. She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder, her lips ticking his ear. He sat unfazed, the illusionary Irene no more startling than the real Irene.

"You let John hurt you," she whispered into his ear. He rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and glancing up at where Irene now peered down at him. Her tidy hair was as it had always been, but today she wore no makeup, even missing her signature blue eyeliner. Sherlock ignored whatever that meant.

"I don't let John hurt me." Sherlock raised an eyebrow to Irene. She made no sense.

"In the same way you don't let Donovan hurt you?" Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in. Irene glided her finger over his eyebrows delicately. If he were a normal man, and Irene not an illusion, something would have happened by now. But of course, neither of those factors were true and he sat alone in Baker Street devoid of feeling anything for The Woman.

"What are you trying to say?" Sherlock asked impatiently. He was tired, all the chatter sucking out the energy in his body. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He closed his eyes for a second, allowing himself to take cold comfort in Irene's icy fingers massaging through his hair.

And in that moment, she was gone, and Sherlock opened his eyes to an empty apartment.


End file.
